


i wish i knew how (your eyes are like starlight now)

by spidermanhomecomeme



Series: all these things and more, darling [8]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Baking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flirting Through Cookies, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Idiots in Love, MJ's cold, Mutual Pining, Peter helps, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28276101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: So he’s a little nervous for some reason. It’s fine. It happens to everyone when they invite their best friend over for some holiday baking.Just some casual, friendly, holiday baking.With a friend.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: all these things and more, darling [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055570
Comments: 19
Kudos: 80
Collections: Twelve Days of Promptmas





	i wish i knew how (your eyes are like starlight now)

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHH!!! Day ten of promptmas!!! yay!!!! we made it!!
> 
> This one is a little..... spicey
> 
> gingerbread spicey ayyyyy

Peter’s mind buzzes as he fumbles with the sack of flour, nearly spilling it all over the counter as he trips over his own feet. He feels as if he’s in one of those dumb infomercials— _“there’s got to be a better way!”_ —when he opens the top cupboard and he’s immediately pelted with the box of disorganized seasonings and extracts. There’s a sense of relief when he manages to catch the red, green, and blue food coloring before it hits the ground, though the feeling fades into a mild panic when he can’t remember if the recipe MJ had sent him called for baking _soda_ or baking _powder._

It also does not help that his hands might be the tiniest bit sweaty. 

So he’s a little nervous for some reason. It’s fine. It happens to everyone when they invite their best friend over for some holiday baking. 

Just some casual, friendly holiday baking. 

Sure, Ned’s not coming, but that doesn’t mean that this is any different, right?

Right?

So why does his heart skip one or two beats when MJ sends him a text that says she’s five minutes away?

It’s strange. 

MJ’s great, she really is. She’s smart, funny, just an all around cool, amazing, _good_ person. The best that he knows. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous around her. Yeah, she can be a little mysterious, closed-off even, but as he’s gotten to know her, he’s seen glimpses of that soft, gooey person that’s inside. 

Yet, even with all of that, lately Peter’s been feeling the exact opposite of “at ease” around her. His stomach always feels like it’s training for the olympics when she’s around, his brain going all fuzzy anytime she talks to him, like he’s stood up way too fast. 

It’s the exact feeling he gets when he hears a knock at the front door. 

And again, he nearly spills sugar all over the tile. 

His body’s kind enough to carry him to the door, and he takes a deep breath, gathering himself before opening it. “Heyyyy.” 

He mentally kicks himself for being so weird. 

“Hey,” she gives a single wave, lips pressing together into a thin, casual smile. “You ready?”

Nodding quickly, he swallows, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course.” 

He stays like that a moment, his eyes unconsciously taking her in—her soft-looking hoodie, the cozy looking joggers, her black converse. 

“Uh… can I come in?”

Peter immediately snaps out of whatever daze he was in, huffing out a laugh as he steps aside. “Shit. Yeah. Sorry.”

She gives another small smile and a single nod, walking past him, her hands twiddling together. 

It’s odd, Peter offhandedly thinks, as they walk into the kitchen, as they each put on one of his old hand-me-down aprons from May and Ben, how quiet she’s being. Of course, MJ’s not normally a loud person, by any means, but there’s usually a lot more snark when it comes to anything Peter does. 

He’s especially surprised when she only lets out a quiet snort when he drops one of the bowls in his haste to get everything out and ready. 

She’s still quiet as she whips out her phone, pulling up the recipe, lips twisting in thought as she scrolls. “Wow, I’m so glad that this lady decided to tell us about the time her sister smashed her gingerbread house before telling us the recipe,” she deadpans, though the corner of her lip quicks upward into a slight grin. “Every cookie recipe needs a good backstory.”

Peter snorts. “If there’s no plot, what’s the point? What’s the motivation?”

He feels MJ’s gaze drift up to him from behind her phone, and he can see her smile growing from the corner of his eye. 

For some odd reason, it’s enough to make his ears burn. 

A beat passes, neither of them saying anything as MJ continues to read and scroll through the recipe, Peter absentmindedly twiddling with the rim of the mixing bowl. 

The silence is broken when she clears her throat, her hand moving to smooth over the back of her neck, resting there. “So, um—I guess uh, preheat the oven to 375. And… Prepare baking sheets by lining with parchment paper,” she reads. 

Peter nods, inside of his lip caught between his teeth as he turns to the oven, a slight jitter to his movements as he presses the appropriate buttons. “What next?” He asks, as if he’s just completed the hardest part, grabbing an old cookie sheet from the cabinet beside the oven.

MJ cracks a smile, though it fades quickly when she goes back to the recipe, reading off the list of dry ingredients for them to mix together. The bowl is too small at first—a lapse in Peter’s judgement of what _small_ means—a few patches of flour spilling out onto the counter when his overexcited mixing gets the best of him. The light teasing that MJ throws his way makes his heart do backflips, his stomach leap up into his chest. 

It’s the strangest sensation that he’s starting to not really mind all that much. 

MJ mixes the butter, brown sugar, and egg in one of the bigger bowls, tongue sticking out between her lips as she wrangles the electric mixer, deep in concentration when they add in the molasses and vanilla; it’s a look that Peter offhandedly thinks is very cute.

Especially with the bit of flour dusting her nose when they start to add the dry ingredients. 

And it’s even cuter when they start cutting out the shapes in the dough, the Hanukkah cookie cutter set he’d gotten from May when he’d first moved in finally getting good use. There’s only one man, and they grab for it at the same time, both of them yanking their hands back when their knuckles brush. 

MJ takes it, smiling quietly. 

It seems like all of these feelings should feel new, given that he’s only just now noticing them. But, in a weird way, they feel nothing like that. Almost the exact opposite. Like they’ve been around forever and he’s just never thought too much about them, whatever they are. 

It’s more confusing than anything. 

Especially when, after getting the cookies in the oven, and they start mixing the icing together, MJ’s hit with a bold streak, swiping her blue-icing covered thumb over his forehead when he’s busy mixing his own bowl. 

“Simbaaaaaa,” she says, her voice comically low and raspy—her best Rafiki impression. 

“Hey!” Peter jumps away from her, a laugh bubbling up from his chest as he holds in hands up in self-defense. “What the hell?!”

“You got a little something—” she gestures to her own forehead, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. 

He feels his own smile nearly take over his entire face, feeling a challenge flaring in his chest when he dips the tip of his finger into his own icing bowl, booping her on the nose before she can dodge him. 

“Hey—”

“You got a little something,” he says, mocking her from two seconds before, unable to keep his smile from growing even more. There’s a giddiness in his stomach, and he feels as if he’s lighter than air itself when she laughs at him. 

_MJ’s so cool,_ he can’t help but think. 

_And pretty._

Peter shakes his head when she doesn’t look away, and he wipes at his forehead, trying unsuccessfully to get the sticky blue off of him. 

“You’ve still got some—right there,” she gestures to herself again. “Do you want me to get it?” She asks, a jitteriness to her tone as she lets out a chuckle. “I can lick it off.”

Peter’s sure that his face is every shade of red at this point. He nearly chokes on nothing, and he suddenly finds that he’s lost all ability to speak as he stares at her with furrowed brows, thoroughly dumbfounded. 

“I’m kidding,” she says quickly, laughing it off, looking back down at her hands, stained blue and green from the dye in the food coloring. “Jeez, Parker.” 

There’s a hint of something to her tone, but he can’t exactly pinpoint what it is; maybe nerves, maybe the awkwardness from him literally not saying anything at all in response. He’s not sure. 

And he tries to brush it off as they clean up while they wait for the cookies to finish baking. A quiet falls between them, both pleasant and at the same time wildly uncomfortable. He clears his throat, placing the mixing bowl in the sink, his focus as he scrubs the dough from the sides failing. 

When he turns around and catches her eye, his heart skips as she snorts at the sight of him, blue icing still caked onto his forehead. 

“God, okay, let me get that,” she huffs out, grabbing a paper towel. He can almost smell the soft lavender notes of her shampoo when she leans over him to wet the paper towel in the sink. It’s dizzying, he finds, especially when she smiles at him as she wipes across his forehead. And he finds when her eyes meet his, he can’t look away, drawn in. He offhandedly thinks how pretty her eyes are, how soft they look, even when they’re teasing him. 

“There,” she says, giving him one last, playful, less than gentle pat on the forehead. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, still seemingly lost in his trance, blinking slowly. “You’ve uh—you’ve still got some. On your nose.” 

And almost disappointingly, she wipes it off herself with the same paper towel. 

Why he’s disappointed, he has no idea. 

MJ’s quick to change the subject—or, start one—before he can even think of anything to say. She’s warmed up by now, less tense, though there’s still a jitter to her movements, a certain breathiness to her laugh that makes the butterflies in his stomach seem to kick into overdrive. 

And it’s a back and forth as they start decorating the cookies—after they’ve cooled, of course. MJ wouldn’t let him anywhere near them when she’d taken them out of the oven. 

“What did you do to that Menorah?” She asks him through a laugh as he struggles to even out the too-big dollop of icing he’d put on his first cookie. 

“I’m not good at this, okay?” He laughs back, letting out a comically quiet scream when the icing drips down onto his hand. He does a double-take though, looking at her cookie. 

A man with a too-big, borderline dumb smile, eyes nearly on opposite sides of the cookie, wearing all red and blue. “What is that?”

“It’s you,” she says with a toothy grin, as if it’s obvious. “Do you like it?”

“Why does he look like _that?_ ” Peter finds himself laughing more. 

“I think he’s cute,” she says simply. 

Peter nearly short-circuits, but he honestly has no response. At all. 

Because she can’t mean what he thinks she means, right? No. Absolutely not. MJ’s calling the _cookie_ cute. _Get your shit together, Parker._

He does feel her glance at him a few times after that comment, almost as if she’s waiting to see if he’ll say anything. Then again, that’s literally just his brain making him think that, making him see and feel things. Obviously. 

There’s no way MJ likes him like that. 

And it doesn’t even matter really. They’re just friends. 

Just some good pals. 

The cookies are even more delicious than they’d smelled, and Peter finds himself caught up in just how cozy and safe it feels to be eating gingerbread cookies with his best friend, even when said best friend pointedly bites off the bottom half of the cookie that supposed to look like him. She can’t keep a straight face, though, nearly choking on the gingerbread when he snorts, crumbs flying. 

“Gross,” she says through her mouthful, unable to keep herself from laughing. 

Peter finally swallows, struggling to get a word out. “You started it!” 

They turn on some documentary—though, if he’s being honest, Peter’s finding that he can’t pay much attention to it. He keeps wanting to look at Michelle, glancing at her every few seconds. It’s a sight that makes his whole body flood with warmth, seeing her curled up on the other end of his couch, absently munching on a cookie as she stares at the screen. 

There’s a moment where she catches him looking at her, the corners of her lips twitching into a quick smile when they both immediately look away. 

Peter swears he can feel his heart beating in his ears. 

Though he has no idea when he started feeling this way about her, this weird nervousness, he now realizes how not new it is. He’s always thought Michelle was cool. That she was smart. That she was funny. That she was _so pretty._

But if he’s always thought this, then why is this… realization suddenly hitting him like a train? Why is it that he can’t even look at her without his stomach wanting to jump right out of his body? Why when every time she so much as talks to him is he smiling like a damn idiot? 

Why _now?_

And then, it dawns on him when she looks over at him, her lips pressing into a shy smile before quickly looking back at the TV, curling her legs to her chest more. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

_Well, shit._

There’s been a number of time’s where Peter’s questioned his own intelligence. Sure, he’s good at school—ignoring the late and missing assignments—he’s made his own web formula. 

But, _fuck,_ he’s a dumbass. 

Because he’s been stupidly, deliriously, ridiculously in love with his best friend and he’s only just now realized it. 

He’s lost track of time by the end of the documentary, barely registering as the credits roll, and they sit there, neither one saying a thing. Peter feels the awkwardness—again, not entirely the worst thing, for some reason—creeping up his neck. He jumps up from the couch, needing something, anything to do. 

With this new realization, Peter feels almost more nervous, terrified of doing something stupid like exposing himself. 

It’s almost midnight by the time they finish putting the cookies away, saving the rest for later, of course. 

MJ stretches her hands above her head, moving them down to hold herself. “It’s getting pretty late,” she says, her voice soft, tired. 

Peter nods, pressing his lips together, leaning on the counter. “Yeah…” 

Neither of them move. 

“I should probably go…” She trails off, rocking back on her heels, though she still doesn’t make any kind of move to the door. She looks out the window, groaning at the sight of the heavy snow falling. She huffs out a nervous laugh, her eyes meeting his expectantly. “It’s so cold though.”

“I could… lend you a coat? Or something?” He can’t help but cough into his arm, glancing around the apartment as his lips curve into a shaky smile. 

MJ seems to get a kick out of that. “Nah. ‘Cause then I’ll have to give it back… and then I’d just end up keeping it.”

There’s nothing that can stop the faint dusting of pink on Peter’s cheeks as he thinks about he wouldn’t mind that at all. 

After a beat, however, Peter’s brow furrows in concern, altogether missing the way she’s looking at him. “Did you walk here?”

She purses her lips. “Yeah.” 

“I—” Peter clears his throat, not wanting to seem to eager at the idea of her staying. “I could call you an Uber?” 

She shakes her head, brow pinched. “No. No, that’s fine. Then I’d have to pay you back.”

“Yeah, you’d probably forget that, too,” Peter finds himself teasing. 

“Hey!”

“Kidding…” Peter clears his throat, biting back his smile. 

A beat passes again where neither say anything, the two of them awkwardly shifting on their feet as they wait for the other to speak. 

Peter’s the first to break. “I mean, if you want, you could… stay here. Wait the storm out.” It feels like it takes about five-hundred years to get those words out, and even longer when MJ’s eyes meet his. And it’s not his best idea, given he’s just figured out he’s in love with her. Having her in such close proximity overnight seems like the las thing he should do. 

But he can’t seem to stop himself. 

“When it’s not so… cold.”

Her fingers drum against the other side of the counter, the inside of her lip caught between her teeth. 

“Good point,” she finally replies. 

Peter breathes out a smile, finding himself relieved, though he’d never admit to it. “So…” He clears his throat again, disguising it behind a cough into his arm. “Sleepover?” He asks lamely. 

MJ’s expression breaks, and she snorts out a laugh, a sound he wants to hear over and over again. 

It goes quiet again though, MJ seeming to be deep in thought before she says anything again. 

“I hope it’s okay, though…” She glances left and right, a tint of insecurity in her gaze. “I like to sleep without pants on. If that’s cool… with you.”

And for a moment, Peter wonders if he’s died, or if he’s having a really vivid, cruel dream. He’s short circuited for a split-second; getting any kind of sentence out is damn near impossible. He blinks. Once. Twice. 

“Um—” He finds himself saying, though he has no idea where that thought is going. “I mean. Whatever. Makes you… more comfortable. I guess?” He huffs out a nervous laugh, the idea of sharing a bed with a very pantsless MJ drilling it’s way into his brain. 

There’s a minuscule upward twitch of her lips as she looks at him. 

“I can take the couch,” Peter says dumbly, and instantly, he’s mentally kicking himself. 

But it’s for good reason. 

MJ needs to be _comfortable._

She doesn’t feel the same way, and he doesn’t want to push himself on her. He doesn’t ever plan on telling her how he feels, so there’s no reason to make this any more difficult for either of them. 

“And you can take my bed?”

He doesn’t see the way her expression falls ever so slightly. 

“Oh—” Her head jerks back slightly, mouth tugging into a faint frown. “I mean. Sure. I guess.” 

Peter only nods, feeling his shoulders squeezing up to his ears, every muscle in his body tight. He nearly trips over himself as he walks past her, leading her to his bedroom. She only throws him a fleeting smile as he pulls out a spare t-shirt for her to wear—what friends do—leaving just as quickly as he’d come into the room. 

In his haste to get her out of his sight, he’s forgotten to grab his own pajamas. Or blankets. Or pillows. 

Oh well. 

It’s not like he’s going to walk back into that bedroom. That would be the most dangerous thing he could possibly do. 

But then, as he lays down on the couch in just his boxers and his shirt that still has a few flour stains on it, his brain decides to bring back the cruel thought, the tempting image of Michelle in his bed. Without pants on. 

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it does. He’s an adult. Not some hormonal teen anymore. 

But everytime he closes his eyes, he can just see so vividly, and he can’t help but wonder _what_ she’s wearing—

_No._

_Bad Peter._

_That’s your friend._

_Stop that._

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to rid his mind of the idea of her long, bare legs tangled in his sheets. 

_Damn it!_

It feels like the entire night’s passed by the time he opens his eyes again, only to realize that it’s only been thirty minutes. He huffs, flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. It’s a fruitless endeavor, he knows, trying to fall asleep. He knows that as long as MJ’s in his room, there’s no way he’ll have any sort of peace. 

He debates getting up and checking the cabinets in his bathroom for some melatonin or maybe even benadryl, when the floor at the entry to the hallway creaks. “Peter?”

He jolts upright, looking over the back of the couch to see MJ standing in the archway, the Stark Internship shirt he’d loaned her just reaching the tops of her thighs. 

One wrong move, and he’d definitely see what she’s wearing. 

He swallows, whispering a pathetic, “hey.”

“Uh, hey,” she responds breathily. “So… It’s like… really cold in your room.”

“Yeah?” Peter sits up more, the throw blanket pooling at his hips as he rubs his eyes. “Do you want like an extra blanket or… something?”

She shifts on her feet, her hands toying with the hem of the t-shirt, Peter finding his eyes instantly drawn to the movement. 

He drags his gaze back up to meet her face. 

“I was actually—uh… wondering if you could just come get in bed?” 

He wants to say that all the blood’s left his body, but it’s honestly gone in two different directions. His face, and… well.

A faint, nervous chuckle spills out of him as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. It’s a terrible idea, saying yes, but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from nodding silently and getting up from the couch. “Another blanket would… would probably be too much.”

A wavy smile tugs at her lips. “Yeah. Exactly.”

It’s strictly for that purpose, he reasons with himself. MJ’s cold. She needs another body next to her. Nothing more. _No, sir._

And it stays that way in his mind as he crawls in next to her, as they turn to face each other, their knees barely brushing one another’s. It’s dark, but he’s close enough that he can just make out the soft curls on her forehead, the slight uptick of her lips as she looks at him. 

It surprises him when she scoots just the slightest bit closer, the way she tilts toward him. A shiver ripples through her. 

“Still cold?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

A light chuckle bubbles up out of her. “Yeah. Could you—” 

“Do you want me to hold you?” He asks before he can even think. 

She laughs again, a breathy, borderline nervous sound.

And he’s frozen solid, a ringing in his ears, unable to move as she nestles against him, his arms wrapping around her. He has no idea what else to do, every muscle in his body tensing when she breathes out, and he knows then that this is where he’ll be the entire night. No sleep. 

His eyes squeeze shut, and he tries not to concentrate on the feeling of her bare legs slotting against his, the warmth of her skin making his brain go all fuzzy. 

“Is this… Is this better?” He asks, clearing his throat again. 

She hums into him, and he can almost feel her smile into his chest. But she pulls back slightly, twisting so that she’s on her back and he’s propped up above her. “Almost,” she says softly, her eyes never leaving his. 

“Are you sure you don’t want another blanket? I can—”

His words are cut off as she leans up to press her lips to his, her hand gently resting on his cheek. 

It’s brief, barely five seconds, before she pulls away, biting at the inside of her lip. 

Peter’s barely had time to process it; the softness of her lips, the warmth of her hand on his cheek. But it hits him in a dizzying flurry as she looks up at him, eyes sparkling, a glint of vulnerability in them as she waits for his response. 

“What?” Is all he can ask, breathing out a giddy laugh. 

“Was that okay?”

Peter’s smile widens. “God, yeah. But I mean—I’m just… Um… I’m a little surprised.”

Even in the dark of the room, Peter can see the way her face contorts. “Surprised? How?”

And then, it’s Peter’s turn to be confused. _Was he not supposed to be?_

“Uh… I don’t know it just kinda… came out of nowhere. Again—” He breathes out a chuckle. “—Not a bad thing. At all.”

She stares at him for a few seconds. She blinks. “Peter, I’ve been throwing myself at you this whole night.” 

He almost falls off the bed. “What?!” He hisses.

“I thought I was being obvious,” she says, a laugh bubbling up from her chest. When he does nothing but stare at her in shock, she shrugs. “I was.”

“The… I—what? You…?” He laughs. “How?” 

“Well—” Her fingers drum over the blanket. “—the icing fight was kinda classic flirty shit. Eating the gingerbread version of you that I said was cute.” 

“I thought you were threatening me,” he quips. 

“Who says I wasn’t?” She deadpans, though he doesn’t miss the way the corner of her lips twitch upward. A beat passes. She blows a puff of air through her lips. “I mean, I dunno, I thought for sure you’d get the message when I said I slept without pants on.” 

Pursing his lips, Peter nods slowly. “I did not.” 

The silence afterward breaks when MJ lets out a sudden snicker. 

“I’m such an idiot,” Peter scoffs to himself, covering his eyes. “God.” 

MJ’s hand falls on his shoulder, gently—yet stiffly—patting him. “There, there,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice. “I still think you’re cute,” she adds quietly. “So there’s that.” 

He peeks out from behind his hands, unable to bite back his smile. “I’m a cute idiot?” 

Her smile widens, even as she presses her lips together to keep it from growing. She reaches out, smoothing down his curls that had fallen onto his forehead. 

“The cutest idiot.” 

And as gross and sickly sweet as it is, Peter never wants this to end. 

But when she leans in to kiss him again, he doesn’t mind. Not at all. 

Her lips are soft against his, gentle and wanting. Her hand falls to his cheek, moving to cup his jaw as his arms coil around her waist, pulling himself closer as he leans over her. It feels like a dream, the warmth of her skin under the fabric of his t-shirt, the soft sighs she lets out as he deepens the kiss, and there’s a pang in his chest when he wonders if he’ll wake up from this, cold and alone. 

But he knows it’s real. All of it. All of _her._

His hand falls to her hip, slipping just underneath the hem of her shirt to draw soft lines into her skin. “MJ,” he says simply, breaking the kiss only for his lips to find a spot on the underside of her jaw. “I like you. So much.” 

He hears her breathy laugh, a sound that makes his heart skip. “I like you, too. So much.”

And he grins against her neck, lips and tongue dragging back up to meet hers again in a searing kiss. Though the room is cold, there’s nothing but warmth underneath the blanket, under her touch, and he thinks that he could stay here forever. 

Goodbye college. 

Goodbye anything that’s not this bed and MJ.

It’s been a whirlwind; for one, realizing these feelings only just a few hours ago, and now he’s kissing her. His head’s spinning, slowly finding himself getting more and more addicted to the feel of her soft skin under his fingers and palms as they smooth down over her behind, along her bare thigh, drinking every inch of her in. 

The sound of her moan against his mouth causes a flooding rush in his brain, the heat pooled in the pit of his stomach to burn, and he’d give anything to hear it again. His hand travels up the inside of her thigh, settling on her stomach, thumb resting on the trim of her cotton underwear. 

She breathes in sharply, her muscles twitching underneath him. And he breaks away, muttering an apology into her lips. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” she breathes back, and he can feel her smile against his lips as she pulls him back down. “I’m cold.” 

It’s at the moment that he wonders if his heart will actually burst through his ribs with the way it’s pounding against them. He laughs breathily before eagerly kissing her, his fingers toying with the waistband of her panties. It almost makes him chuckle again when she subtly raises her hips, encouraging him, but he holds back, still not able to keep from smiling against her as his hands moves to cup her over the fabric of her underwear. 

It’s so dizzying, how much warmer she is where his hand holds her, the heat radiating from her, and he has to screw his eyes shut to concentrate, beginning to draw slow lines up and down her center over the thin, damp cotton. 

She sighs shakily against him, her head falling back, breaking the kiss as his lips find a home on the underside of her jaw. He brings her closer to him, nestled into his chest as he continues his ghost-like touches. 

When his fingers finally brush over her clit, she sucks in a breath, one of her hands coming to comb through his curls. 

He’s achingly slow as he circles the bundle of nerves through the fabric, matching the relaxed rhythm with his kisses on her neck. He knows he could go faster, that he could just get a move on, and judging from the way MJ’s grip in his hair tightens when he increases his pressure, she does, too. 

But this moment is one he wants to stay in. To savor. He wants to pack up everything he owns and live in it. 

But he also knows that his self-control might not last that long. 

Again, for the _nth_ time that night, he finds himself smiling, both at her soft whines as he picks up his speed and at the way her hand falls to cling to his shoulder. He can hear in how her breath hitches and quickens, feel how her muscles start to twitch underneath him, how she stiffens, that she’s close. 

And right at that moment, he pulls away. 

“Peter—” 

Her whine is cut off by his hand dipping under the waistband of her underwear, finally touching _her_. Her mouth hangs open, a choked gasp spilling from her as he dips his fingers into her entrance, gathering her arousal and swirling it over her sensitive clit, and he can’t help but groan into her neck, feeling how wet she is. 

How wet she is for _him_. 

Her back arches as she pushes herself into him, his pace on her clit quickening when she moans out his name. And he murmurs hers back, his soft kisses on her skin a contrast to his feverish touches as he eagerly works her heat. 

His fingers dip down again to her entrance, teasing faint circles before he slides one in, his eyes once again screwing shut at the warmth, at the feeling of her clenching around him. He works a steady pace, pumping his finger in and out, smiling at her wet gasp when he pushes a second one in, instinctively curling them as he glides through her wetness. Her grip on his shoulder tightens even more, nails digging as he finds that perfect spot inside her. 

But then, when he feels her getting close again, he stops, and he wonders if she might hit him by the way she groans in frustration. Still, he smiles—cheekily—as he grabs the hand on his shoulder, guiding it down to her center. 

“Can you touch yourself?” He asks, his tone too innocent for such a request, and he knows it. 

MJ finds it in herself to laugh, shaking her head and closing her eyes as her hand sneaks under the waistband of her underwear and starts toying with her clit.

And for a moment, in all honesty, Peter almost forgets that he’s a part of this, too entranced in watching her face as she touches herself. 

But then, he remembers. A true gentlemen, he peels her underwear from her legs, helping her kick them off before sneaking his hand down again to play with the wetness at her entrance, drowning his fingers in it. An airy smile tugs at her lips when he pushes his two fingers back in, languidly pumping in and out of her. 

“Teamwork,” he mutters dumbly into her neck. 

Her laugh is a beautiful sound, but it’s broken by a low moan when Peter’s fingers curl inside of her, her eyes screwing shut as she matches her pace on her clit with his buried in her cunt. 

“That’s it, MJ,” he whispers hotly as she clenches around him, her muscles fluttering, feeling her teetering on the edge as her thighs start to close around his hand. He watches her expression for a moment, seeing it building and building, before moving to capture her lips into a heated, messy kiss. It’s clumsy, all tongue and teeth as her high climbs. 

And she comes with a loud cry, breaking the kiss, her other hand clinging to him for dear life, nails digging into his skin as her muscles flex and twitch. Her breathing is ragged as she comes down, her hand on her clit moving to grab his working her heat. She holds his hand for a moment, leaning up to kiss him again. 

It’s slower, yet just as hungry. 

Peter moves to wipe his hand on his boxers before placing it on her hip, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against her skin as he kisses her. 

When they break apart, she pushes her forehead against his, smiling dreamily. 

“Still cold?” Peter asks, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is that better?”

She huffs out a breathy laugh, planting another quick kiss on his smile. She curls further into him, nuzzling into his neck, her breath tickling. 

“Much better.”

**Author's Note:**

> ;)))))
> 
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
